The last of the SOC boys-the fingernail picker-came back around the corpse on his hands and knees, bristling with test tubes and tweezers and swabs. He looked pretty green, too, and those guys were a tough bunch. They were the ones who had to find the fibers and hairs, swab stains, pick up all the bits and pieces. Close-in work, real close.

The M.E. ducked in. "Finished?"

"I sure hope so."

Pendergast held out his shield. "Mind if I ask a few questions, Doctor?"

"Shoot."

"Do you have a cause of death?"

"Not yet. Heating, burning , is clear. But as for the cause .     I have no idea."

"Accelerants?"

"Negative, at least prelim," the SOC man answered. "There are other anomalies. Note the lack of the pugilistic effect-there's none of the contraction of the arm muscles one usually sees in such severe burn cases. Note also the heat fracturing in the bones of the extremities. Nearer the center of the body, the bones have actually been calcined. Do you have any idea how hot a fire would have to be to cause this kind of damage? Well over the combustion threshold. And yet there was no room flashover. In fact, from the look of things, the fire never even approached flashover. The heat was localized to the body, and the body only."

"What kind of heat was applied?"

The doctor shook his head. "No idea yet."

"Spontaneous combustion?"

The doctor looked up sharply. "You mean, like Mary Reeser?"

"You know of that case, Doctor?"

"It's kind of a legend in medical school. A joke, really. I seem to recall the FBI handled it."

"Yes. And if the case file can be believed, SHC-spontaneous human combustion, as it's referred to-is far from being a joke."

The doctor gave a low, cynical laugh. "You FBI fellows and your acronyms. I don't believe you'll find 'SHC' in the Merck Manual , Mr. Pendergast."

"There is more in the world than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Doctor-or in the Merck Manual . I will send over the case file for your perusal."

"As you wish." The doctor departed with the SOC man, leaving them alone with the body.

D'Agosta removed his notebook and pen. Nothing was coming into his head, but he needed a way to take his eyes off the scene, and this was it. He roused himself and wrote, October 23, 2:20 a.m., 842 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 17B, Cutforth. The pen faltered as he tried to breathe only through his mouth. From now on, he was going to carry a jar of Vicks VapoRub with him always. On dates. On vacation. Out for bowling. Always.

He heard murmured voices in the living room: detectives from Homicide. They'd been interviewing a maintenance worker outside the hall-away from the stench-and D'Agosta had been thankful to duck past them on entering the apartment. He didn't want any of his old pals seeing him with the Southampton P.D. patch and sergeant stripes on his shoulder.

His gaze focused back on the page of his notebook. His mind wasn't working. He gave up and raised his eyes.

Pendergast seemed to have overcome his revulsion and was now on his hands and knees, examining the corpse. Like the SOC guy, he had a glass test tube and a pair of tweezers in his hands-where did he keep all that stuff in such a narrow-tailored suit?-and was putting something into it, moving around with great care. Then he moved toward a wall, where he stopped to examine a scorched area with a magnifying glass. He spent so much time staring at it that D'Agosta began to stare, too. The paint of the scorched patch was browned and bubbled. There was no hoofprint that he could see, but as he stared a creeping sensation began to tickle its way up his spine and dig into his scalp. It was blurry, indistinct, but-damn-was it just like those inkblot tests, all in his mind?

Pendergast suddenly turned and caught his eye. "You see it, too?"

"I think so."

"What exactly do you see?"

"A face."

"What kind?"

"Ugly as shit, thick lips, big eyes, with a mouth open as if to bite."

"Or swallow?"

"Yeah, more like swallow."

"It's uncannily reminiscent of Vasari's fresco of the devil swallowing sinners. The one inside of the cupola of the Duomo."

"Yeah? I mean, yeah."

Pendergast stepped back thoughtfully. "Are you familiar with the story of Dr. Faustus?"

"Faustus? You mean, Faust? The guy who sold his soul to the devil?"

Pendergast nodded. "There are any number of variants of the story. Most come down to us in manuscript accounts written in the Middle Ages. While each account has its unique characteristics, they all involve a death similar to that of Mrs. Mary Reeser."

"The case you mentioned to the M.E. just now."

"Exactly. Spontaneous human combustion. The medievals called it the fire within ."

D'Agosta nodded. His brain felt like lead.

"Here, with Nigel Cutforth, we seem to have a classic example. Even more so than with Grove."

"Are you telling me you think the devil claimed this guy?"

"I offer the observation without attaching any hypothesis."

D'Agosta shook his head. The whole thing was creepy. Seriously creepy. He felt his hand stealing toward his cross again. It couldn’t be the work of the devil .     could it?

"Good evening, gentlemen." The voice came from behind: female, a rich contralto, calm, efficient.

D'Agosta turned to see a woman framed in the doorway, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with captain's bars on the collar of her white shirt. Several detectives were visible behind her. He took in the features: petite, thin, large breasts, glossy black hair framing a pale, almost delicate face. Her eyes were a rich blue. She looked no more than thirty-five: amazingly young for a full captain in the Homicide Division. She looked familiar. He knew her. The sick feeling returned. Maybe he'd been a little premature in congratulating himself that he wouldn't run into any of his old buddies.

"I'm Captain Hayward," she said briskly, looking at D'Agosta a little too intently for comfort-recognizing him too, it seemed. "I know you already presented credentials at the door, but may I see them again?"

"Certainly, Captain." Pendergast had his badge out in one elegant movement.

Hayward took it, examined it, looked up. "Mr. Pendergast."

Pendergast bowed. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Captain Hayward. May I congratulate you on your return to the force, and most particularly on making captain?"

Hayward let that pass without comment and turned back to D'Agosta. He had removed his shield for her, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at him.

The name brought it all back: Laura Hayward, who'd been a transit cop back in his former life, going to school at the time, writing some book on the underground homeless in Manhattan, working toward a graduate degree or something. They had worked together briefly on the Pamela Wisher case. That was when she was the sergeant and he a lieutenant. He felt his gut sink.

"And you must be Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta."

"Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta these days." He felt himself coloring. He really didn't feel like making more explanations. It was a frigging disgrace and there was no way around it.

"Sergeant D'Agosta? No longer NYPD?"

"Southampton P.D. You know, as in Long Island. I'm the FBI liaison on the Grove case."

He looked up to find her hand out. He took it, gave it a desultory shake. The hand was warm, a little damp. It gave D'Agosta a secret satisfaction to note she wasn't quite as cool as she seemed.